Ten bridesmaids, in blue and silver. Reminded me of
the ten virgins. Only the proportion of foolish ones, this time, was
certainly more than five. However, they looked well. The Archbishop
proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom; so sweetly pathetic.
Some of us cried. I thought of my daughter. Oh, if I could live to see
Stella the central attraction, so to speak, of such a wedding as that.
Only I would have twelve bridesmaids at least, and beat the blue and
silver with green and gold. Trying to the complexion, you will say. But
there are artificial improvements. At least, I am told so. What a house
this would be--a broad hint, isn't it, dear Lady Loring?--what a house
for a wedding, with the drawing-room to assemble in and the picture
gallery for the breakfast. I know the Archbishop. My darling, he
shall marry you. Why _don't_ you go into the next room? Ah, that
constitutional indolence. If you only had my energy, as I used to say to
your poor father. _Will_ you go? Yes, dear Lady Loring, I should like a
glass of champagne, and another of those delicious chicken sandwiches.
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